Why doesn't God just poof it all away?

At lunchtime, we prayed for everyone affected by the coronavirus, and Sam asked why God doesn't just poof it all away, and all the kids agreed that yes, He could definitely do that if He wanted to.

Let me tell you a story, I began. When Jesus was walking around down here, he had some friends, two sisters and a brother. And they liked to hang out together. So one day, the brother got really sick. He got worse and worse and worse and the sisters knew that unless a miracle happened, he was going to die.  They sent a message to Jesus: quick! Our brother is dying - we need you to come!  And Jesus got their message and he was like: yeah, he's dying. So I'm just going to stay here for a few more days.  So Jesus didn't go.  And then, of course, the brother died.

And all around the table the faces were aghast. JESUS did that?! Tender, loving Jesus didn't go heal his friend? WHAAAAA?!

So I went on. Jesus showed up for the funeral. He saw the sisters crying, and he cried too.  He was so sad that their hearts were broken, and their brother was dead.
And the sisters were like - if you had only come when we called you, we know you could have healed him!
And Jesus was like - you think you know me, but I want to show you something so truly glorious. And he prayed, and then called the brother to come out of his grave. And he did.  He did more than just healing him. He reversed death in a crazy unexpected astonishing moment.

And they thought about that for a few minutes and I asked them if they thought God was most interested in keeping us comfortable or in something else.  "It could be both," they decided, "He cares about us but He also wants to show us things."

So I read them this verse from the book of Isaiah, chapter 66, verse 9:
I will not cause pain without allowing something new to be born, says the Lord.

And I can't speak from a place of knowledge or pain in this pandemic. Nobody I know and love is suffering. My friends and family are safe.  So take all this with whatever grains or buckets of salt you need. But in our current distress, I have seen some glimpses of unexpected and astonishing beauty.

People are working together to try to protect the vulnerable and elderly.  They are so often forgotten, ignored, pushed aside. But now that they are particularly threatened, we are remembering what particular treasures they are. Not because of their productivity or income ... but because they have an innate and precious value.

We are realizing how terribly, beautifully connected we are.

We can see so clearly who comprises our living supply chain - have we ever thanked, noticed, and prayed for our drivers, cashiers, and pharmacists like this before?

We are unable to watch athletes amaze us, but we are celebrating health care professionals and janitors, people who daily serve our indignities with dignity.

We are cheering one another on and reaching out emotionally when we can't reach out physically.

This isn't nothing.
There is something holy afoot; I believe it.
Something new is being born.
xo.

What I Didn't Realize I Would Miss

I went for a walk tonight in the dark, once the kids were all tucked in bed.  I needed to get out, to breathe and have some space around me.
To think.

Due to moves and new jobs and regular life changes, I've found myself quite a bit more lonely this school year. And like a contrary and confusing person, when I feel lonely I tend to pull away from whatever longsuffering people are still around.  Scally and I haven't done very much with our days between bus stop drop off and pick up.

So I really didn't expect social distancing to feel any different than any other day.

I didn't realize I would miss the bus stop moms.
I didn't realize I would miss my favourite cashiers and servers and the secretaries at school.
I didn't realize I would miss the bustle of Wednesday night Awana, the quick hellos and smiles of the other parents.
I didn't realize I how completely I would miss Sam's friend's mom when she drops him off and picks him up every day.


But dang.

On my walk tonight, I realized that my days are filled with unnoticed, unremarkable, but very present friends. Their familiar faces and unexceptional hellos are a gift. Checking in and watching the kids play while we wait for the bus is not nothing. Making inconsequential chitchat while the cashier scans my purchases is more than just noise.  Sharing coffee with a neighbour isn't just a coffee.

It's bread. It's bread.

It's not the chocolate cake of best friendship, not the sparkling fizz of a night out with a crowd. It's not memorable and it's not something I'd write about in my diary.

But it's there.
It's good.
And it keeps us together, every day.

So here I am, confessing to all of you people I barely know:
I love you.
I love your makeupless faces and your pj pants and your cups of coffee and your crossing guard sign. I love your habit of folding the receipt in half before you pass it to me and I love that I can tell who you are from the drive through speaker. I love that you ask me how my day is or pause to comment on one of my kids. I love you like I love bread fresh from the oven, like I love bread and butter, like I love bread and wine.  You are beautiful to me and you matter in my life and I hope you are well.

I love you, and I miss you.
My life is so quiet without you.
Stay safe, my friends, and God bless you.
xo.